


deep blue (found love like an ocean)

by RyeFo



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29964792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyeFo/pseuds/RyeFo
Summary: A flower, a mask. A tryst in the rain. A beginning.Space is said to be limitless, constantly expanding. For Ash, the big-bang that started it all wasn't a temporal explosion, but rather a heartbeat in a garden.(A 3-part sci-fi story about Ash, Eiji, and finding even space can lead you back home.)
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	deep blue (found love like an ocean)

It starts in a walled-off garden and a conversation.

But that’s where it starts, and there’s always a _before._

Right now, he’s sat atop the constructional skeleton of the Galactic Congressional Praesidium, deep into the throes of night, tossing bottle caps into the decorative fountains below.

Ash’s been staying at the _Thessium_ hotel, just shy of the main road of ships docking at the port, but the good thing about an old man shackling you—the bones will creak if you tug too hard.

When he’s called, he’ll go back inside. He’ll be a model gentleman.

“Shit, is that an actual _cola?”_

Ash turns his head over his shoulder and spots a familiar purple mohawk, poking above the metal rafters. He holds up the bottle with a grin as Shorter hauls his ass up to sit next to him, then holds out an expectant hand. 

Ash rolls his eyes and pushes the bottle into his hands. “Real deal alright.”

“You rich boys get everything.” Shorter takes a swig. “Damn. Tastes like utter shit.”

“Most _‘vintage’_ stuff does. It’s just a status symbol,” he scoffs. “Can you believe they waged wars for this stuff?” Ash pauses, flicks the company logo on the bottle Shorter swiped. “Or the company that made it had some military force. Either way?”

“Either way.”

Shorter shrugs, feet dangling off the building, banging his heels softly against the reinforced solar glass. Puts the bottle between them, rests his elbows on his knees. That’s his _thinking_ pose, which means Ash already knows the conversation transpiring here.

It’s not one he’s going to look forward to.

“You sure you know what you’re getting into?”

Ash rubs his temples and props one leg up to rest his arm on his knee. “I’m in the best position to take him down this time.”

Ash glances at Shorter and knows now why his friend wears those dark shades of his. Wishes he had some of his own.

“It’s not a matter of me wanting to do it or not. It’s just… doing it.”

“I could help you.”

Ash laughs, soft and somber, and flicks Shorter’s chest, right in the middle. “We both know how that turned out last time. You shouldn’t even be here now.”

“Yeah. Nadia would skin me by the balls if she knew I wasn’t still in Del and Meredith’s clinic.

“Then… why?”

Shorter smiles, and salutes with that metal arm of his. “Had to catch you before you dove too deep, didn’t I?”

By the skin of his teeth and some sort of divine intervention, Shorter Wong miraculously survived Dino Golzine’s jealous wrath. See, the thing is, Shorter’s kind heart was in the right place at the wrong time, mind hacked into, and now that heart is rotting whilst a falsified one beats to keep his old friend alive.

Ash had to shoot that heart to save Shorter’s life.

That’s the price of good men trying to help him. Him, the ticking timebomb.

At least he has the starry canopy overhead. Should be a good view to backdrop a temporal explosion.

* * *

Everything starts when he spies that boy across the ballroom floor.

Golzine’s parading around his newly “adopted son”, his appointed heir, his inheritor of everything. One arm around Ash’s waist, one shackle in his heart, and Ash can hear the electric _tickticktick_ from inside his cognitive waterlog.

They’ve got matching masquerade eye masks and everything; slit-eyed, red, and gold, with genuine parakeet feathers, plucked from the micromanaged population. Ash’s is similar, though with a synthetic trim instead.

“One dance,” the hot breath crawls up his spine; he’s charred, hidden behind scarred makeup. “You may choose one person to dance with. Leave a good impression on them all. Make them _envy_ whoever you choose, sweetheart,” Golzine whispers this generous _gift_ to him at some stage during the night.

The thing about being a timebomb is that you’re not apt at keeping time, until time itself becomes your keeper and you follow along, like the good caged lion you are supposed to be.

 _You may choose._ Ash could throw his head back and laugh hysterically. As if he ever had that choice. _Mark them for death,_ more like.

So, he doesn’t choose, so much as observe.

He’s got a good foothold in the social ladder and picks out a charming young thing, the heir of some noble family that Golzine’s been trying to get into good graces with.

The head of the family apparently owns the rights to a shortcut in their usual drug delivery route, away from the reach of the law that can’t be bribed (as rare as that is, it exists)—and aside from the wandering eyes of the heir’s mother who’s at least 20 years his senior, it’s not that bad.

Ash lifts their hand to his lips. “It’s nice to meet you, Mx. Thessia,” and softly kissed, it leaves their blue skin flushed underneath their white mask, their black eyes glowing underneath. “May I have the honour of the next dance?”

They take Ash’s hand, and into the crowd, they do the slow waltz.

See, the thing is, Ash can play the polite, debonair aristocrat fine. It’s not that bad once it’s broken down to stages—like a performance in a theatre, a sad sonnet made song, center-stage. Flutter his lashes to elicit a giggle, bow his head to earn a hum of approval.

It’s all pretty textbook, yet they fall for it, hook, line, and sinker.

Ash lifts his head at a stage, sees the way Golzine glowers with jealousy, masks it by beaming at Ash with pride.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

The polished floors squeak under his wing-tipped shoes, open-back blouse catching the tailwind of the other couples dancing in the room. There’s an entourage of masks here; some golden drama masks, some based off of animalia, each of them has a golden trim.

Ash can see the way his charming dance partner shyly glances at his cherry-coated lips, but he pays it no heed, no mind (it burns it burns _it burns it burns_ )—it’s better, he’s been taught, if he’s innocent, unassuming, alluring without _knowingly_ allured, compelled by their charms so they have the power in the dynamic.

Ash knows how to tailor himself to his audience.

All he does is smile.

So, perhaps, it’s startling when the glow of the moon floods into the ballroom, catching the light from the silverware on the buffet table. It’s like, before that temporal explosion can hit him, the countdown gets jammed. Ash’s breath stops, and he spots something across the ballroom that causes his heart, for a moment, to still.

Ash’s eyes follow that trail of light, and soon enough, it reaches hawkeyed honey glaze across the way.

There’s a boy in the ballroom.

One he’s never seen before.

The boy is standing on the fringes of it, of course. Nowhere near the epicenter of tonight’s events like Ash is, but the boy is a spectator all the same. Compared to Ash’s backless blouse and gold-slanted jewelry, his clothes, a simple white shirt, and brown slacks.

The boy is notably lacking the ornate masks that everyone else dons to blend in here—along with the older man he’s with—showing a more casual-business reason for attending. The blue hover camera bot hovering near him confirms he’s there to capture the event, not become _captivated_.

That’s not what gleans Ash’s interest—no, it’s not in the slightest. The reason he’s drawn to that boy is that, once he looks his way, the boy looks _back._

For a second, everything else falls away, and he just _stares._

There’s nothing special about that boy. Nothing that stands out, nothing that’s remarkable or special, nothing that would make him the hero in any books Ash spends the rainy days reading, tucked away in the corner of any library he can find when Golzine carts him around like some caged lion to be paraded and envied by all.

Nothing special… but he’s _something,_ regardless _._

The music finishes with a final triumphant note; his dance partner bows shyly and goes back to their mother, giggling behind their hand. Not the worst one he’s ever had.

Could almost be enjoyable to reminisce on later. Ash turns his gaze back towards the crowd.

The boy’s a phantom. Ash can’t spy him anywhere.

_Oh, well._

“That was a good choice of partner,” Golzine hums, as Ash draws back to his side. “That will help bolster arrangements down the road. I’ve taught you well.”

“Sure,” Ash replies, non-plussed. “Got plans to wed me off already, old man?”

Golzine chuckles, waving his hand in dismissal, before it creeps back around his waist, fingers digging into his flesh. “I’ve just named _you_ my heir. There’s no need for you to produce one just yet.”

 _As if I’d ever let you near any of my kids._ Ash snorts in kind, hiding it behind a gloved hand. “Letting me enjoy the throes of youth a little longer? How generous of you.”

“Be grateful for what you _do_ have, sweetheart, and be careful with how you jest.” Golzine turns to Ash, fixes the mechanical rose of twisted copper metal behind his ear, fingers brush down his cheek. “Many would kill to be in your position.”

_And I’ll take you with me when I die to get out of it._

Vanity eclipses Golzine’s momentary lapse in judgment in focusing purely on Ash—that’s the old man’s biggest downfall, really, the lust he has for Ash—to turn toward some business associates.

Something about investments in stock capital, or… maybe recommending the “right” employees for a transfer.

It’s all smack-talk in the form of monetary dick measuring.

Golzine tells him to mingle, to socialise. It doesn’t matter if he sneaks out, strays too far. Ash can’t get out for long.

Shorter proved that. It’s been almost two years since their last conversation on that rooftop before he forced Shorter to leave him behind.

It happens. He’s fine. It’s not a big deal.

(The warmth of the Chang Dai. The egg rolls. Nadia’s kind hand on his shoulder, Shorter’s laughter in their inside jokes, Sing’s huffing over being praised, Copper’s scolding over his eating habits, Skip’s crooked grin like they’re sharing a secret.

…Griff.

Oh, _Griffin._ )

* * *

Gardens like these are a sweet, noxious gas. Inhale it, that sweet scent, and it’s already trapped you, drowning in your own lungs. Nothing to do but cut yourself open and hope you make it through the night.

Ash sits there right now, on a benched groove tucked behind a rose-hedge maze, climbing thorns blanketing his little bubble. Slipping out here isn’t wise, even for some peace—Blanca would call it _ill-advised,_ but then again, Blanca’s not here, he still needs to figure out what he did wrong to understand _why_ Blanca left—but he’s here, all the same.

He sits there in this garden, where chlorophyll isn’t just some shade of paint; it’s the real deal, the leaves are striking and _scented_ naturally. Most real-life flora on this planet is relegated to tightly guarded greenhouses or stray seeds that locals can snatch on the tailwind of the cars that hover by skyscrapers.

Here, it’s brazen. Almost a vulgar display of wealth. Most flowers are mechanical, these days, twisted and bleached scrap metal save for weeds deemed unsavoury.

Ash can hear every single step people make in these gardens. Odd conversations and snippets, worker gossip on who’s fucking who (he’s in there—they know better than to mention him by name, though. He doesn’t fault them for it. Nobody knows. Burns, it all _burns_.).

Down one portion of the rose-hedge maze, some official’s daughter is in an ill-advised tryst with a journalist, who’s writing a paper to bring her mother down in a hedging scandal. Fitting, he supposes. Poetic in another, if he cared.

Guy has a small dick, from the sounds of it.

Almost makes him laugh.

There is one sound, however, that makes his eyes snap back open—a _click, click, click._

Ash draws a knife strapped inside his boot and backs against the concrete wall. Never the hedge, you never know what can be concealed in those thorny bushes—he learned that the hard way with Blanca.

(Always was the hard way with him.)

He stalks silently, sticking to the softer grass, heel down first, then toes.

The cool metal saps the heat from his eyes, gripping the handle harder as he edges around the corner, and…

Oh.

It’s that boy from earlier.

Ash watches the boy, bemused and taken aback as he watches that boy… kneeling down and taking a picture of a _flower._ It’s a dahlia, from the looks of it. The camera he’s using is old, too old; the type that would have been innovative and cutting-edge over a century ago—adjustable lenses, manual buttons, heavyweight, and solid.

And without a care in the world, he’s just snapping pictures of Papa Dino Golzine’s private orchard.

The golden lights from the grand hall sweep over the hedge maze, the red roses, the buttercups that dare to sprout in the otherwise impeccable lush lawns. Something pushes Ash, and he’s withdrawing his knife recklessly, walking recklessly, and approaches the boy recklessly.

“You shouldn’t be here—”

“One second!” The boy _cuts Ash off,_ dismisses him with a wave of his hand, as he _lays down on the cobblestones_. His eyes don’t leave from behind the viewfinder in his ancient camera, turning the adjustable lens. “I’ve almost… got it! Just a second! Don’t move—”

The boy clicks his camera, once, twice, three times. Each is a lurch in Ash’s throat.

“Okay, that’s a good shot!” Ash is left, quite frankly, bewildered as this weird boy with an unfamiliar accent curling around his English hops back up, dusts off his clothes. “Sorry about that, I’ll… oh.”

They both share a second of silence.

“Oh,” the boy whispers again as he stills, eyes wide when he spots Ash. “It’s you.”

“Me?”

The boy blinks then shakes his head. “No, no. It’s nothing. Must’ve been the wrong person.”

With claw marks shadows in the ground, the silence drags on. The boy shifts on his feet, his camera hangs in his hands, and Ash can see his skin is grafted with some sort of circuitry poking out from underneath his pale sleeves. _Cybernetic implants, maybe?_ It’s not uncommon these days.

“Um, were you going to—say anything? Or just stand there and stare?”

Ash blinks out of his reverie. _Weird._ He’s not often at a loss for words. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I’m aware.”

“Okay, you’re aware of that, but…” Ash folds his arms and digs his gaze under that boy’s skin. “You’re don’t know who I am?”

The boy tilts his head, blinks twice. Ash almost likens him to a rabbit, a confused dog. “Is there a reason I should?”

“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

The boy snorts through his nose, before waving him off. “That’s giving me way too much credit. No, no, I’m just an assistant working the cameras. Nothing special.”

An assistant? That tracks, Ash reasons.

“You still shouldn’t be here.”

Ash can feel the boy’s eyes on the hardlight blade at his side—the only visible weapon he allows, it’s decorative more than anything, but it still _hurts._ Ash challenges him with a slit-eyed glare underneath his mask, hot despite the chill of the night air, and—

“Is that knife real?”

Ash is stunned, a second time in the span of one conversation. What the actual _fuck_. _“Huh?”_

The boy flushes as if to realise the ridiculousness of his own question but he offers no platitudes. Instead, the boy sticks with it, arms folded defiantly. “The system I’m from—Izumo—we don’t really have weapons like that.”

Izumo. He’s heard of that system. Just shy of the Eastern cluster. It’s an ancient colony famous for its natural rainy weather bubble and old architecture carried over from Earth.

Ash feels his lips quirk. _Such a baby._ “Yes, it’s real.”

“Can I hold it?”

That gives him pause. Ash _stares._

That question is suicide in this cluster. Or anyone who’s heard of his reputation. Even those who don’t know him are associated with him by the rumour mill.

Ash stares at this peculiar boy, innocent big eyes, camera at his side, and he’s transfixed. Those big, innocent eyes, blink at him. Ash doesn’t even know this boy’s name, has no real reason to trust him. He shouldn’t be this invested in a stranger.

It goes against everything he’s ever been taught.

Everything.

“Sure.”

* * *

The boy’s name is Eiji.

His name is Eiji Okumura, he’s _older_ than Ash by two years, and he’s a reporter’s assistant for a magazine, who primarily works on the cameras. Eiji Okumura has a prosthetic foot designed by his younger sister made out of old scrap she’s salvaged (yet somehow it works better than half the expensive shit on the market, maybe because this one is made with _care_ ), a penchant for using old tech like cameras made in the 21st century, an insufferable amount of wit behind those big, baby eyes…

…and Ash finds himself still wandering these gardens with him.

They both sit down on a small wooden bench near the start of Golzine’s rose garden—his pride and joy with how he injects those roses to make their fragrances more pungent—and Ash folds one leg over the other, idly leaning on the bench.

Eiji sits on it, then lifts his knees to hug them to his chest, keeping his eyes trained on the flowers.

“It seems selfish, tucking them away here, making sure nobody can enjoy them.”

Ash snorts. “D’you really think they give a shit about that? The rich are hoarders. Eventually, that was gonna overlap with mother nature.”

Eiji’s lip juts out into a little pout. “Assholes.”

Ash feels his lips quirk. “ _Wow_ , I wouldn’t have expected you to be able to swear.”

That comment’s greeted with Eiji flipping him the bird. Ash laughs again.

It’s been at least twenty-five minutes. Golzine’s probably already grown another gut trying to bust it to find Ash. It’s gonna hurt tonight if he can’t come up with a good reason.

They come to a small alcove, bordered by white lilies, crunchy petals at their feet. 

Eiji reaches over and strokes a lily petal. Ash is a little transfixed.

“How did you get into journalism?” Ash asks to distract himself, taking a seat on the nearby bench. “Or—become a cameraman’s assistant, I guess. Semantics.”

“…Could I cop out and say it’s a long story?” Eiji laughs, a little sheepishly, and twirls a fallen flower in his fingers as he sits beside Ash. “A long story, and a… well, it’s one I’ve not quite finished yet. Check back with me in a year or two to see how it ends.”

“Sure, I get it. Smart to not give that away to someone you just met.” Ash shrugs. He gets it, Ash wouldn’t open up to himself either. Ash knows he’s not the most trustworthy type around.

“It’s not—” Eiji sighs. “Don’t sour my opinion of you just because you feel low. It’s nothing to do with that.”

“I _never—”_

“That’s exactly what you were doing!” Eiji huffs, folding his arms and sinking against the bench back. “Honestly. Just like a petulant teenager being told he can’t have more coffee.”

“…That’s a little specific.”

“Yeah, well, being related to my sister will do that to you.”

A beat passes by on this chilled night, and Ash rubs the back of his neck. “…Sorry. Bad habit. I’ll work on it.”

Eiji… softens a bit and sits back up. “Truth is that my life was upended in a way I didn’t anticipate. Adapting to a brand-new way of living has been… hard. So, I’m working in the journalism field as a… recovery period, of sorts.”

 _Oh._ Ash feels a small punch of guilt in the gut.

“What about you?” Eiji holds that flower up closer to his face, and smiles. “What do you do?”

Ash hesitates. “I…” As he looks at his lap, he frowns. _Eiji doesn’t know._ “You can’t know.”

“I can’t?”

“No, I mean—” Ash twists a loose thread around his finger. “If you know, if it gets out that—trust me, I’m doing it for your own safety. You don’t need to know what I do. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The flower drops to the wayside, petals turning black in the shadows.

Still, the quiet is, as it permeates this safe little bubble they had crafted together. Ash can’t remember the time he openly laughed, and now when he tries, he just drowns from those noxious sweet fumes.

He walks with Eiji a little further into the garden, nearer to the port side. From here, he can see the ships depart and land until they’re glowing little specs on the horizon. In Ethereum, they are limitless, yet here he is shackled by reality’s gravity.

Eiji has a small nose. Flat, curved with golden-brown skin contrasting the blue hue of the cybernetic grafts sticking out his skin, on his wrists, on his leg. Like a gentle flame, or a phoenix waiting to take flight.

Something on Eiji’s techCo.watch beeps, and he sighs. “That’s… my boss. I need to head back to the party, our ship will be leaving soon.”

“Right.”

He’s known this boy for thirty-seven minutes. If time is kind, he’ll get a couple more seconds. Eiji looks at Ash with regret in those big soft eyes, like he regards Ash as some sort of human being. He _isn’t,_ but being looked at like a normal person is…

He aches. But Ash’ll take aching over numbness.

“Will I ever—I mean, is traveling to Izumo on your itinerary you can’t tell me about?” Eiji tries to joke, hands stuffed into his pockets. “If so, well, I know pretty much everyone on the station. I’ll find you.”

There’s a sad tinge to both their smiles. “Can’t tell you, remember?”

 _I’ll find you._ Griff said the same thing, once. _After I’m finished out there, I’ll find you, and we can find a place far away from Dad. We can be free, Aslan. Just wait for me._

Eiji’s kind. He’s kind and a bit of a brat, and he’s got his own painful story Ash doesn’t need to add to. He deserves the stars, this boy.

But—

Maybe, maybe he can have a small taste of what once was.

Eiji’s silent as Ash reaches forward, takes a lock of his hair, and plays with it between his finger and thumb. He can hear Eiji’s breathing stagger, but he doesn’t flinch or move away. The backs of his index and middle fingers then gently brush against Eiji’s cheek, and Ash… his heart twists when Eiji’s cheeks warm.

“Wish we could be like a photograph. Frozen.”

Eiji opens his mouth to say something, but Ash’s already withdrawn his hand, settled it against the holster by his hip. The cold metal kisses his fingers, but some lingering warmth remains at the tip of his index.

“You should go,” he urges Eiji, gently.

And he watches.

He watches that boy leave, so hesitantly, but he doesn’t look forward. Until he’s a spec in the ballroom back at his boss’s side, Eiji locks his gaze onto Ash’s, alone in that blue-hued garden, and it lingers even after Ash turns away, and takes off his mask.

He can feel Eiji’s eyes on his back even still, and carries it with him through the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey AO3 mind Not deleting my notes? A n y w a y.
> 
> Title is from "deep blue" by the midnight. This AU was spawned and inspired by a LOT of conversations I have with adreamingsongbird (rimi again u make me cry w/ how you write ash) as well as my random binge watch of clips from the matrix.


End file.
